


baby, it's always been you

by orenji



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Car Sex, Drunk Driving, Drunk Sex, Frat Boys Doing Frat Boy Things, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Rough Sex, also a copious amount of frat lingo, find all the Easter eggs folks, i'm just as appalled at using these tags as you are reading them, obscure vine and himym references, so many of em, this is so self-indulgent it's insane, unprotected sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-15
Updated: 2019-01-15
Packaged: 2019-10-10 12:08:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17425601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orenji/pseuds/orenji
Summary: “Hey,” Keith says, with a small smile, “I love you.”“What?” Shiro asks, disbelieving. “You what?”Keith leans forward, eyes suspiciously bright. “I’m in love with you, Takashi Shirogane," he confesses with a wet laugh. "I’m so fucking crazy about you that I don’t even know what to do with myself.”(Or: A cheesy romcom-style story about two frat boys who mend their broken pieces by finding love and solace within each other.)





	baby, it's always been you

**Author's Note:**

> this is purely self-indulgent. there is no excuse for this. this is also not the style of writing i typically do--my prose is usually flowery and longwinded, so this was a fun challenge! this is a bit of a grittier style, if that makes sense, but i've always wanted to take a crack at it. and who better to do it with than my two lovely boys?

**August.**

Scarfing down a nameless diner’s breakfast-for-dinner special at one o’clock in the morning with Lance is not the worst way to end a Saturday night, Keith thinks. He _could_ have gotten laid, and he was so close, too, with one hand down the front of this girl’s tight jeans that left little to the imagination at a Lambdas party.

Her name was Acxa and she was gorgeous, with short dark hair that fell into the blue of her eyes. She was so into him, too, mouthing filthy murmurs against the shell of his ear as she grinded down, wet and loose, onto his fingers. But then her ass vibrated with the force of her phone, and Keith, ridiculously hard and ready to fuck her up against the wall, insisted she ignore it. She agreed, but then it kept ringing, again and again, and she eventually picked up with a roll of her eyes when she spotted the caller ID.

Keith paid no mind, though, and in his eagerness, chose to lick a hot stripe up the line of her throat. She moaned and laughed, sweet and high and musical to Keith’s ears. After a moment, though, she pushed Keith off her, just slightly, and her face dropped. She listened to the other line, expression somber, and shot Keith a deeply apologetic look. _I have to go_ , she said, tucking her phone back into her pocket. _Ezor and Zethrid just got into a huge fight._

Not knowing who the fuck those two were, a scathing comment burned on the tip of his tongue, but he relented and untangled himself from her. No point in asking her to stay when she was clearly set on leaving. She kissed his cheek and gave him her number, telling him to hit her up anytime. She threw a wink over her shoulder as she walked off, and Keith’s gaze lingered on the enticing curve of her ass as she made her way out the house.

He found Lance shortly thereafter. He was in the bathroom, curled around the edge of the toilet bowl with chunks of previous Taco Bell on the corners of his mouth. Keith wrinkled his nose in disgust and pushed his way through the sweaty throng of random girls who were huddled around Lance to make sure he was okay. He spouted off apologies to the small crowd and hauled Lance’s sorry ass right out of there to seat him in his car instead. Lance thanked him with a drunkenly goofy grin, to which Keith whacked him over the head in response, muttering half-hearted curses underneath his breath.

After a few quiet moments spent mulling over the events of the night—namely how he got cockblocked by some tribal-warrior-named assholes and how he unwittingly saved Lance from quite possibly dying, Lance broke Keith’s daze by suggesting they go get food. Keith looked at him incredulously, wondering how the hell someone would even want to _touch_ food after that pathetic sight, but the rumble in his own stomach ended up answering for him. With an annoyed huff, he searched up the nearest eateries on Google Maps and set out to satiate their hunger.

So now here he is, in a B-rating twenty-four-hour establishment just a ten-minute drive from campus. _I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen a B,_ Lance said, wary. _You sure you wanna eat here?_ Keith snorted, dragging Lance inside the dimly-lit restaurant with a loose grip around his wrist _. I’ve seen what you bring home,_ Keith said, amused. _Since when do you care about quality?_

They’re in a booth, lining the insides of their Fireball-coated stomachs with greasy food that will most definitely result in a case of diarrhea come morning. He doesn’t care about that, though, because he has bigger things to worry about right now.

Did he drive drunk? Yes. Does he care? Not really. But will Pidge yell at him and subsequently kick him in the nuts like she always does when he gets back to the house reeking of cheap booze, car keys guiltily in hand? Abso-fucking-lutely. He already suffered from a case of blue-balls tonight, he’s not looking forward to any more abuse directed towards his poor, poor dick. He’s never been into sadomasochism.

He’s hoping he can just press his luck on her being asleep by the time he gets home so she doesn’t have the chance to murder him, which is why he keeps motioning for the waitress, an old blonde woman with a gruff voice called Cindy, to top-up his glass of orange juice.

She’s tired of his shit (it’s his eighth refill), but complies anyway, because she has to. Keith makes a mental note to leave her a decent tip. He’s not that much of a douche. Lance, meanwhile, regards Keith closely while thoughtfully chewing on a piece of bacon.

“What?” Keith asks through a mouthful of eggs.

“I think,” Lance says, very seriously, “we should get an apartment.”

“Veto.” Keith stabs his fork through the air, pointing it at Lance. “You think I’m going to drive you to class every morning? Go fuck yourself.”

“Bro, I only have one eight AM—”

“ _No_ , Lance.”

Lance sulks, picking at his food. Then, suddenly, he brightens and leans forward. “What if I promise to suck you off whenever you want?”

Keith throws a balled-up napkin at his head. “You’re a fucking menace,” he says with a scowl. “Go put that energy somewhere else. Like getting your license.”

That brings an end to the conversation. They finish up the rest of their plates in a comfortable silence, the only words hanging between them easy questions of passing the salt or pepper. They’re best friends, whether or not Keith wants to admit to the fact. They met in their shared English Lit class in high school, hated each other’s guts, punched the shit out of each other one day in the football field, and have been attached at the hip ever since.

 _Bro, picture this,_ Lance said excitedly in their senior year, after they got accepted into the same university. _We get to college, and we join a frat._ Keith raised a brow and questioned the integrity of this newborn desire, explaining to Lance that girls don’t fuck with frat boys anymore, if that’s what he was trying to get at.

Lance simply shook his head. _No, dude,_ he said, almost sagely, putting a hand on Keith’s shoulder. _We could be as stupid as we want_. And Keith couldn’t argue with that logic, so they rushed Alpha Kappa Psi together and miraculously got bids.

Greek life isn’t what they expected, but it’s still arguably one of the better decisions they’ve made together. AKPsi is a business frat, though half the actives in his chapter are STEM-based (including the both of them) and Keith will never understand why.

There’s a level of professionalism to be expected, though—at least in maintaining a solid GPA. But in total honesty, their frat is basically a social in all but name, so they lucked out. This means that there are plenty of cooler and smarter people that Keith could hang out if he so chose, but Lance’s stupidly good-hearted charm and naiveté makes it hard to think about leaving his side.

They like Pidge, though. She’s dope. She doesn’t like to go out all that much and joined solely for brand-name purposes, but she’s insanely smart, funny, loyal, and constantly has copious amounts of Adderall in her arsenal to boot. She’s a slight bit more partial to Lance than she is Keith, mainly because she _is_ Lance’s little, but also because Keith is too brooding and mysterious (her words) for her taste, but she treats them like family all the same.

Her admittedly boorish reason for joining doesn’t stop the other brothers from treating her like an absolute princess, though. Even Keith’s little, James Griffin, who is nothing short of a complete dick, loves her to death. She’s the only female-member who willingly chose to live in the house, so everyone makes the effort to keep the bathroom on her floor clean, which is basically the equivalent of swearing an oath to die for her honor in the world of fraternities.

Keith’s phone buzzes incessantly, then, and he hurriedly fishes the device out the front pocket of his joggers. _Speak of the devil_ , he thinks, as he slides open the onslaught of Facebook Messenger texts sent from his housemate.

**_Pidge Holt_ **

hullo sir i kno ur partying but answer quickly pls

i need to borrow ur car

where are ur keys

and where did u park

i need to go to CVS real quick

He gulps, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

**_Keith Kogane_ **

Uhhhh…with me?

Her response is instantaneous.

**_Pidge Holt_ **

r u fucking dead ass rn

how many times have i told u to not drive if ur gonna drink

dumb piece of shit, i’m gonna fucking kill u

**_Keith Kogane_ **

I’m sorry mom

The gray bubbles pop up as she types. So much for her not finding out. Keith waits on her reply with a baited breath, already mentally bracing himself for the creative insults she’s undoubtedly going to hurl at him. Her potty-mouth knows no bounds. In hindsight, maybe it wasn’t the best idea to try to break the tension with a joke.

**_Pidge Holt_ **

when u come back stop by CVS and cop me some tampons

and some midol

i have one pad left and i’m on day two

if udk what that means it’s code for HURRY TF UP

Oh. Alright. He was expecting a lot worse.

**_Keith Kogane_ **

Okay I will I promise

**_Pidge Holt_ **

and never call me mom again

u vapid cunt

just wait till u get home

i’m gonna shove my fist up ur ass

Ah. There it is.

“Who’s that?” Lance asks distractedly, ungracefully dumping his fork and knife onto his plate. Before Keith can reply, Lance’s phone (an Android because he’s an absolute madman) dings beside his hand. He glances at the screen before inputting his passcode and shooting off a series of rapid-fire texts, thumbs dancing over the keyboard even in his less-than-optimal state.

There’s a delighted glint to his eyes, and Keith gets the creeping feeling that this bastard is genuinely sexting, across from him and in plain sight. He’s a little jealous, but he’ll take that piece of information to the grave, thanks.

“Pidge,” Keith answers, dragging a hand down the length his face. “She asked about the car.”

Lance pauses, looking up from underneath his lashes. “What’d you say?”

He shakes his head in lieu of a verbal answer, and Lance immediately understands. His expression morphs into that of pity. He places his phone face-down onto the table and he reaches out, rubbing a consoling hand up and down Keith’s bicep.

A group of freshman (Keith knows, because there’s a lightness in their laughs that are characteristic of those who haven’t been beaten down by the cruel realities of school yet) come bustling in through the door, and he watches them in envy. So young and pretty. They’re going to go back to their dorms after stuffing their faces with a late-night meal and sleep soundly, completely dead to the world.

Unlike him. He’s going to go to bed with an icepack on his groin, wake up with a hangover and hot magma coming out of his ass, and there’s nothing he can do to prevent it.

“It was nice knowing you,” Lance says, partly serious. He snakes his arm back to his side, grasping for his phone again. “You’re a good man. I’ll make sure to give your eulogy.”

“Please don’t,” Keith says. He shrugs on his bomber and makes eye-contact with Cindy the waitress. He gestures for the check, and her relief is so palpable in the drop of her shoulders that Keith nearly winces. Surely, he wasn’t that bad of a customer. She turns on her heel to go fetch the receipt, and Lance makes a curious noise when he finally returns to the real-world and belatedly realizes what’s going on.

“Are we leaving now?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Keith replies, fitting his cheek into the grooves of his knuckles. “Pidge needs the car.”

“Needs?” Lance questions, eyebrows crawling towards his hairline. “What for?”

Keith unlocks his phone one-handedly and slides it over the sticky surface of the table to Lance, who dips his head to scan his eyes over the lit screen. He mouths the texts, reading aloud.

“One pad left and day two,” he recites, and then sits back with a dismissive wave of the hand. “She’s fiiiine. We’re good for like, at least another two hours.”

Keith cracks a smile at this. “Sisters?”

“Sisters,” Lance confirms. He sends one last message before tossing his phone in the air for Keith to catch. Keith palms the bulky device inquisitively, confusedly staring at Lance. Lance pointedly looks down, signaling for Keith to do the same.

“You want me to read your sexts?” Keith asks, disbelieving.

“Wha—no!” Lance says, turning red. For someone who willingly sleeps with anything that moves, Lance still has the persona of a blushing virgin. It’s weird, but also kind of cute. Just kind of. “I wasn’t sexting! You think I would do that you? Right in front of your salad?”

Keith hates himself for laughing. “That meme is dead, dude.”

“You still think it’s funny, don’t lie,” he says, a self-satisfied air to his words. “Anyway, read.”

He does as he’s told.

The supposedly innocuous text thread is with someone (a girl, Keith assumes) named Allura. Beside her name are a string of heart-eyes and twinkling star emojis, which is a far cry from the usual tongue, water droplets, and fire emojis that Keith has unfortunately been privy to seeing on occasion. She uses a lot of exclamation points, but otherwise texts properly, with proper grammar and everything. She even signs each message with two x’s and a smiley face. Wow. Impressive.

From what Keith can gather through the messages, Allura is Delta Sigma Pi and is inviting Lance and whoever he’s with to come by to hang out for a while. The house is clearing out and she just got done bartending, but they just got new handles and copped an obscene amount of NYC Diesel so she’s still game to make Lance a mean Jungle Juice and smoke, if he’d like.

Lance raucously agrees in a text consisting of all-caps and a line of purple and pink hearts. Clearly, he likes her and wants to get in her pants, but Keith can already tell just from how she’s reacting to his excitement that she’s way too cool for him. He wonders if he should tell Lance to tone it down a touch, but decides against it, because he sort of wants to see how it’ll work out without any intervention.

The offer is tempting, but DSP is notorious for going hard as shit even on their tamer nights. He’s fortunately sobering up due to the intake of an unholy amount of trans-fats that he’ll definitely have to run off later, and he knows that if he goes, he’s going to partake, because how could he not? Getting crossfaded is always a fun time, but he has to drive back somehow. He’s not totally irresponsible.

“I don’t know,” Keith says, handing Lance’s phone back to him. “Pidge is already mad.”

“So?” Lance says, too loudly. They get prying looks from neighboring tables. Cindy makes her way back to them, check holder and pen in hand, and she does not seem pleased, a deep frown staining her lips. Keith ducks his head, embarrassed. They have to get out of here.

“If she’s already mad, then we have nothing to lose!” Lance continues, babbling enthusiastically. “We’ll be back before three, I promise. We won’t get too crazy, we’ll go to the drugstore before we go home, everything will be A-OK.”

Keith is still unsure and it must show on his face because Lance pouts and emits a sound akin to a small, kicked animal. He gives Keith his best puppy-dog eyes, clasping his hands together underneath his chin.

“Pwease, Keef?”

Keith gags so violently his body lurches forward with the force of it. “Never do that again.”

“Then let’s go!” Lance exclaims, throwing his hands in the air. “Please, dude. You don’t know how hot Allura is. If you saw, you’d like—your dick would burst into flames. Like, you’d start pissing lava. I’m not even joking.”

Keith grimaces. “Sounds like that time you caught chlamydia.”

“Ugh.” Lance shudders. “Dark times.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Hey!” he says indignantly. “I learned from my mistakes. ‘Don’t be silly, wrap your willy,’ is like, my life motto now.”

Cindy throws the bill down onto the table right then, shooting a glare at the pair that would mean murder if looks could kill. She must have heard that uncivilized last bit of conversation. Keith swallows audibly and mumbles his thanks, and she dawdles by their sides for longer than is socially acceptable, evaluating the mess they’ve made. It’s not that bad (at least his side isn’t), Keith thinks, but he still shrinks in on himself all the same. When she finally walks away, Lance lets out a deep exhale and jerks his thumb over his shoulder.

“Man, what a bi—”

Keith near-jumps across the table to cover Lance’s mouth with his hand. Lance stares at him unblinkingly, words unintelligible, and then licks his palm with a playful narrowing of the eyes. Keith groans in disgust and settles back down into his seat, wiping his hand onto his pants before reaching in his inner jacket pocket for his wallet. He pulls out his card and tucks it into the slot of the folder, writing out a twenty-five percent tip onto the receipt.

Hm.

He catches a glimpse at Lance’s disorganized clatter of silverware, napkins, and condiments before scratching out a thirty-five percent tip instead. Lance nudges him with his foot underneath the table.

“So?” he all but pleads.

Keith heaves out an exasperated sigh. What the Hell.

“Fine, but you’re buying the tampons,” Keith grumbles, acquiescing to his fate, “and you’re filling up my tank.”

Lance hoots and pumps a fist in the air.

“Hell yeah!”

 

* * *

 

The Delta Sigma Pi house is weirdly out of the way, mainly because it’s tucked behind some semblance of a forest far-off from campus. Lance tries directing Keith, but that goes about as well as one would expect. They get lost multiple times, driving needless circles around unsettling paved pathways with an abundance of trees that push the boundaries of Keith’s comfort. But as God would have it, before long, they’re hearing the tell-tale boom of muffled music that guides them along the way.

Keith reminds Lance to call Allura before they get there so that they don’t end up getting shut out by whoever’s playing bouncer. _Good idea,_ Lance says before dialing her, his voice sugar-sweet over the phone. Keith doesn’t bother hiding his derisive laugh, and only laughs harder when Lance smacks his arm. They pull into the driveway shortly after and climb out of the car, having to step over numerous bodies littered on the front lawn in various stages of undress, to get to the front door.

A girl with legs for miles is already outside, red solo cup in one hand as she mindlessly scrolls through her phone with the other. It’s chilly out, but she still has high-waisted shorts on that do nothing to hide the skimpy reveal of her lower backside. She’s a total bombshell, Keith has to admit.

She’s got dark skin and dyed gray hair pulled into a braid, and when she looks up, smiling wide in recognition, her blue eyes shimmer even in the darkness of the night. She waves over at Lance, animated and bright, and Lance immediately jogs over to her with a grin that splits his whole face. He picks her up in a huge hug and twirls her around, resulting in a shriek that turns into a wonderfully melodic laugh.

When Keith catches up to them, Lance undergoes the typical introductions. She’s an Englishwoman, Keith quickly learns. He stage-whispers to Lance that she is _seriously_ out of his league, and is rewarded by a giggle that make her eyes crinkle. He goes to shake her hand, and her grip is so strong that he stumbles when she pulls him into a tight embrace. He can’t help the surprised chuckle that bubbles out of his throat, and rubs a hand down her back, inhaling her scent of sweat mixed with a fruity perfume.

She pulls away with a sweet quirk of the lips and takes them both by the hand. She drags them past the bouncer, a burly and unfairly handsome dude that Keith recognizes as the university’s prized quarterback by the name of Ryan Kinkade, and inside the house.

The place is still bustling with activity when they walk in, shitty EDM playlists blaring throughout. There’s a small, yet insanely loud crowd right by the staircase, and one of the senior brother’s busts through the middle and to the entrance with a half-empty handle of Absolut in his hand.

He has a backwards snapback on his head and is donning a sweatshirt embroidered with his pledge name (Highwire, Keith reads wryly) on the front, even with how obscenely hot it is inside. He has sweat pouring down the sides of his temples and obvious pit-stains when he raises his arms, and he is quite possibly the most picturesque example of a frat boy Keith has ever seen. He shoves the bottle into Allura’s face with a cheeky smirk, and Allura groans, shaking her head.

“Oh, come on, Rolo. We were just—”

“Everyone who comes in has to take a shot,” he singsongs, obnoxious and in-her-face. “No exceptions!”

He passes the bottle to Allura, who passes it to Lance, who passes it to Keith. He ends up taking way more than a shot because the rat-looking bastard keeps egging him on, a wicked gleam to his eyes. _I know you could do better than that,_ he taunts. _Don’t be a pussy._

With his pride on the line, Keith chugs down an unholy amount of peach-flavored poison and swallows with a grimace and a few more hairs on his chest. In hindsight, Keith should have recognized this was a supremely bad idea, but he was never one to consider the ramifications of his actions. Allura apologizes for the silly house tradition, a sheepish grin on her face, before leading the pair farther up ahead.

Besides _that_ brief interaction, Allura’s earlier words ring true as the house indisputably isn’t as crazy as Keith has known DSP to be, with room to actually breathe and move around without tripping over someone else’s stray limbs. The real party must still be going on down in the basement, though, because the floor vibrates underneath Keith’s feet. Or maybe that’s just the alcohol.

They make their way to the smoky lounge and Allura encourages them to make themselves comfortable on the various pieces of mismatched furniture. There’s a guy seated towards the edge of a well-worn couch in the center, and she walks up to him to ask if he would mind rolling a new joint for their guests. Keith doesn’t know why, but the sheer mix of her asking for something so illicit in such a kind, well-mannered way has him stifling a laugh. The guy agrees easily, though, smiling warmly as he reaches for the grinder placed on the coffee table in front of him.

If Keith thought the bouncer was attractive, then this guy must be a fucking Adonis-reincarnate or something. He’s got mostly-black hair with a tuft of white sweeping down over his forehead and into his eyes. His lashes are long and dark, fanning over his high-cheekbones as he glances in Keith’s direction. Even sitting down, he looks as if he’s been carefully sculpted from marble, broad shoulders with a tapered waist and thighs so thick and strong they could crush a man’s skull. Side-by-side, he and Allura give off vibes of the most dangerously attractive power-couple to ever exist.

“ _That’s_ who she should be with,” Keith mumbles into Lance’s ear.

“Fuck off,” Lance hisses.

Allura goes through the pleasantries quickly. She gestures to Myrrha’s bastard love-child and introduces him as her dearest big who goes by…something. Keith doesn’t catch his name amidst the sudden bass drop coming from the speakers and the resulting cheers and hoots. He dubs him Thunderstorm for now, because his eyes, while extremely bloodshot, are an unnatural shade of piercing gray Keith has never seen on an actual human being before. Thunderstorm reaches out to shake his hand, and Keith is only taken aback for a split-second when his flesh comes into contact with highly-sophisticated metal.

“Military,” he says, as if that explains everything, and perhaps it does.

Allura promised to mix them drinks, so she tries to go off to the kitchen, but Lance pulls her back by her forearm and asks where she thinks she’s going all alone. She beams up at him, leaning into his touch, and he looks down at her with such an intimate and unguarded expression that Keith feels like he’s intruding just witnessing it. It’s like they’re in their own little world, a certain gentleness in the way they regard each other. Huh. Maybe it’s more of a mutual feeling than Keith originally thought. He absently wonders why they’re not together yet.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” she explains patiently, even when Lance tightens his grip on her wrist.

“I don’t want to wait that long,” Lance says quietly.

Under normal circumstances, Keith would scoff at the cheesiness of the line, but Lance sounds so shockingly earnest that he’s stunned silent. Allura rolls her eyes, fond, and tells Lance to join her, then, if he’s going to be such a baby about it. They walk off together, arms linked, and Allura cranes her head to tell Keith and Thunderstorm to just start without them. Keith gives her a lazy thumbs-up and plops down on the couch, sinking into the giving cushions.

Thunderstorm rolls up quickly and with surprising dexterity, considering. He packs the joint with the drawstring of his hoodie, and Keith finds that little act strangely adorable, for whatever reason. He reaches into the pocket of his sinfully tight jeans, forearm flexing against the stretch of his folded-up sleeves. He pulls out a well-polished Zippo and lights up, cherry flaring bright underneath the dim lighting. His cheeks hollow as he inhales. He’s a pretty one, Keith will confess.

He doesn’t try to be subtle when he gives Thunderstorm an appreciative once-over, but he doesn’t expect to get called out either. He hasn’t hooked up with a dude in a while, but he could see himself on his knees for this guy. Thunderstorm catches his roaming gaze and laughs lightly, a tinkling, silvery noise that Keith would like to hear more often.

“Like what you see?” he teases, voice even, but his cheeks are dusted a soft pink and it gives him away. He coughs, and then transfers the joint off to Keith. Their fingers brush, obvious and drawn-out with intention, skin warm.

Keith shrugs in an unconvincing show of nonchalance, bringing the filter to his mouth. Play it cool, play it cool. “I’ve seen better,” he says, voice pitched low.

“Oh, have you?” Thunderstorm asks, biting at his lower lip, attempting to conceal a smile.

Keith’s eyes flicker down to his pretty, pretty mouth. Thunderstorm bares his pearly whites in a grin.

The smoke hits the back of Keith’s throat as a hazy curl of peach and earthen pungency. An aromatic, rich type of tang, he finds. He takes his time, selfish in his hits, partly because Thunderstorm is already smacked, mostly because he wants to tease. What is this stunner capable of, he wonders, as he tips his head back and exhales a thick cloud. The tense of his shoulders unwind, weightless as he all but melts into the couch.

“Good shit,” Keith says, coughing.

Thunderstorm’s nose scrunches cutely. “Glad you like it,” he says.

A girl comes up to them, then. She’s tall and blonde with rounded hips and huge tits, pink-lipstick smeared all the way onto her cheek. Her shirt is falling off the delicate slope of her shoulder, showing off the black lace of her bra. She’s hot. She just got done with a hookup, clearly, because Keith can sniff out the heady stench of sex even over the weed. She smiles at them pleasantly, either oblivious or totally uncaring. Keith doesn’t know which one he’d be more impressed by.

“Hey, sweetheart,” she greets, twirling a stray curl around her manicured pointer. “Mind if I take a hit?”

The corners of Thunderstorm’s lips tip upwards. “Of course, Romelle,” he says, placing the joint in the cradle of her outstretched fingers. “And where are you coming from?” he asks, a knowing edge to his tone.

She hums, smoke filtering out through her nostrils. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” she retorts, winking at him. “He wasn’t as cute as you, if you were wondering.”

Thunderstorm snorts. “I wasn’t, but good to know.”

She giggles, high and harmonious, and then thanks Thunderstorm with a playful curtsy. She runs a hand through her mussed hair, gaze sliding over to Keith for a passing second. She shoots him a sexy little simper and then walks off with a purposeful sway to her hips, and Keith’s eyes follow before he drags them back to Thunderstorm’s entertained profile.

“You hitting that?” he finds himself asking.

Thunderstorm near-chokes, from the weed or the question, Keith doesn’t know. Thunderstorm waves his hand frantically, and then chuckles, Adam’s apple bobbing against the thin skin of his throat. “No way,” he says. “She’s my grand-little. I’m too old for her.”

At this, Keith raises a brow. “How old _are_ you?”

Thunderstorm stiffens, but only just slightly and for so fleeting of a moment that Keith might have missed it if he blinked. He flexes his carbon-fiber arm. “I was in the military for four years,” he says slowly, as if in remembrance, or caught in the middle of a memory. “I’m a senior now. So, I’m twenty-six.”

“That’s not that old,” Keith says, and by the way Thunderstorm’s posture relaxes, he wonders what kind of response he was originally expecting, or what response he usually gets, even. “You look a lot younger, if that helps.”

“Yeah?” he asks, amused. The flame goes out. “What are you, like twenty?”

“Twenty-two in October,” Keith corrects, and then with a surge of confidence, plucks the joint out of Thunderstorm’s mechanical fingers and reaches for the lighter placed on his lap. His hand lingers, the heat of his palm seeping through Thunderstorm’s jeans. Thunderstorm intakes a sharp inhale of breath, eyes clouding over. Keith squeezes the meat of his inner thigh, and then pulls away, flicking open the lighter to bring life back to the spliff. 

“Hey,” Keith says, voice hoarse as his lips curl into a slow grin.

Thunderstorm blinks. “Fuck,” he says, laughing. “Am I reading this right?”

Keith slings an arm around the back of the couch. He reaches forward, cuffs a hand around the nape of Thunderstorm’s neck. He tugs him closer, filling his lungs and cheeks with rolls of the now-familiar sharp scorch. This close, Keith can see the faint scar across the plane of his nose, the freckles spotting along his cheeks. Thunderstorm opens his mouth wordlessly, compliant, lashes fluttering. Keith blows out, unhurried and steady in his stream. The swirls of smoke make their way onto Thunderstorm’s tongue, kissing and running their way down to the back of his throat.

“Are you?” Keith murmurs.

Electricity crackles through the air. This is the part he loves most about meeting someone new—the anticipatory drum-roll, the will-we-or-won’t-we. It’s a thrill he never fails to get high off, an adrenaline that thrums through his veins, under the surface of his goosebumped skin.

He’s on his way to stoned, time slowing and shifting around in snapshots, but every little thing Thunderstorm does goes by too fast, like the way his tongue peeks out to wet his lips, or the way his jaw clenches with nerves, and Keith wants to commit every detail to memory. Thunderstorm is a gorgeous thing of contradiction, loose-limbed but demure, and Keith’s lust pools in the pits of his belly at the thought of devouring him whole.

Could also be nausea, but optimism never hurts.  

“Think so,” Thunderstorm says, tilting his head.

Their noses brush, but Keith stops just a centimeter away, until their mouths are a hairsbreadth apart. He waits, and the excitement builds. He examines Thunderstorm’s face carefully, searches for confirmation. The blunt pads of his nails dig into the top knob of Thunderstorm’s spine, and the small whimper he gets in response shoots straight to his dick. Thunderstorm’s eyes twinkle with eagerness, sparkling like lightning bolts amongst a hurricane, and Keith takes that as his cue to close the gap.

Unfortunately, this is where it all fades to black.

 

* * *

 

He wakes up on a sofa with a bag of frozen peas between his thighs and a migraine so painful it pushes a line of bile up his throat. He blinks the bleariness out of his eyes and tries to shift around to get more comfortable, but it only serves in making him queasier. There’s a blanket thrown over him and it smells like fresh laundry and something else familiar. When he peeks underneath, though, he’s stripped down only to his boxers which throws him for a bit of a loop until he takes a proper survey of his surroundings and realizes he’s back at home.

He hears a pained groan coming from his side, and he turns his head just enough so he can make out Lance sprawled out on the loveseat opposite from him, pale in the face and definitively worse-for-wear. He’s still in his clothes from last night, hair stuck up in wayward directions and a line of dried drool pooling out from his mouth and down to his jaw where a five o’ clock shadow is starting to come in. Keith belatedly notes the frozen steak placed neatly atop his penis. Pidge got to them both, apparently. They make eye contact, and Lance tiredly raises a hand in acknowledgment.

“You alive?” he asks, voice scratchy.

Keith shakes his head. “Just barely.” 

He falls back onto the headrest with a sigh. Rays of sunlight fall onto the planes of Keith’s chest through the slats of the windows, signifying the start of the day. The clock on the wall ticks rhythmically as the minutes pass, the noise ear-splittingly loud in Keith’s achy hangover haze. He has to piss like a camel and his throat is so dry it feels like sandpaper, but moving from his spot is so out of the question right now that it would be laughable if not mostly pathetic.

“Oh, good. You two imbeciles are awake.”

Pidge glowers down at them from over the rim of her glasses, looking an even cross between thoroughly unimpressed and furious. She’s wearing one of Keith’s old pullovers, huge on her tiny frame, and she has her hair pulled into a messy bun, brown strands falling free to frame her face. She’s holding two glasses of water in her hands and a small bottle of Advil peeks out from the large front pocket of Keith’s ratty high-school sweatshirt.

Lance reaches for a glass, but she swiftly moves out of reach and sets everything down onto the end table with a loud clack that has the both of them wincing. She crosses her arms over her chest, tapping her bare foot against the tiled floor impatiently. As darling as she is, she’s still scary, so Keith nestles further into the blanket that he now realizes is hers to hide his face.

“Do you fuckers want to know what happened now or later?” she asks.

Before either of them can reply, she goes on.

“Too bad, I don’t care,” she interrupts with no room for disagreement. “You’re going to shut up and listen to me without any interruption, lest you want me to start yelling.”

Their mouths shut in unison with an audible click.

“Let me set the scene for you,” she starts, annoyed. “Here I am, in pain and running low on supplies, and so I ask my friend, my _brother_ , to kindly allow me to borrow his car so I can go to the pharmacy. I’m sure we all remember this part, yes?” She sneers as they hesitantly nod. “After all, I was aware that he was going out to get fucked up, and I _knew_ that he wouldn’t be so irresponsible as to drive under the influence, not after I have consistently told him to not pull such a dumb stunt.” A deep expression of pure disappointment settles into the lines of her face. “Oh, how wrong I was.”

Keith flinches.

“After I find out that yes, he actually is that stupid and irresponsible, I ask him to do me a simple favor, because what else can I do besides wait, right?” She raises her shoulders in an over-exaggerated shrug. “He agrees, says he’ll be back soon. So now, it’s three-thirty in the morning with no word, no update, and little ol’ Pidge over here—” she points to herself “—starts to get worried. I call. And call. And call again. No answer whatsoever. Zero. Zilch. Nothing.”

He has absolutely no recollection of this.  

“Ultimately, someone picks up,” she continues, voice raising in volume, veins popping onto her forehead in a fit of rage. “But it wasn’t you. It was some fucking stranger! He informs me that you have blacked out, are totally unresponsive, and that the friend you came with is nowhere to be found. So I’m wondering, wait, what friend?” She turns to Lance with a murderous glare, and he lets out a meek yelp, curling in on himself. “And then I, in a fit of concern, ask for the address, and call an Uber—with fucking surge pricing, mind you—and arrive to see Keith in some dude’s lap, covered in a pool of his own vomit, and Lance making out with some hussy, completely oblivious to all this.”

Wait. What?

“So what do I do?” she demands, looking between the two of them, daring them to answer. They do not. “I enlist help from the bouncer and haul your sorry asses out of there and this _whole_ time, I am literally shedding the walls of my uterine lining. I had to strip your ass naked so as to not ruin the seats in your car because I am a _good fucking person_ and drove off to the pharmacy. So I finally get my shit, hours after I first asked for them, and then I guzzle water down your throat to make sure you don’t fucking croak.”

Oof. Mega yikes.

“Meanwhile, Lance is completely silent, acting like a scolded schoolchild, and I am _livid_. We finally get home at the crack of dawn, and you two pass out in seconds, but not before I severely injure your chances of producing any more sperm—” she shoots a pointed look at their matching icepacks “—because you two are the _absolute dumbest_ pieces of shit I have ever met and if you somehow do manage to reproduce, the whole world would singlehandedly implode!”

Her hands ball into fists by her side, chest heaving with the force of her anger at the end of her rant. Keith and Lance share A Look ™, unsure of how to respond without inadvertently making things worse.

Eventually someone decides to come out of the shower, and upon closer inspection, Keith is able to tell that it’s literally the only person he doesn’t want to see right now. With suds of soap clinging to his bare torso and a towel wrapped around his waist, James comes to a standstill when he takes in the pitiful sight, his mouth curling into a sardonic smirk. That smug bastard.

He walks over to Pidge, trailing water all over the place, and slings an arm around her should in way of greeting, effectively cutting through the palpable tension. He drops a kiss onto the top of her head, and she grumbles in mock-discontent but the line of her shoulders ease as she inches closer into his side.

“What’d they do this time?” he asks, then jerks his chin in their direction. “Good morning, sleeping beauties,” he chirps. “That was ironic, by the way. You two look like Hell froze over.”

“Thank you for explaining the joke, Griffin,” Keith says dryly, throwing an arm over his eyes as protection from the brilliance of the sun. “What would I do without you?”

“What would you do without _me_?” Pidge snaps. “Do you morons have anything to say?”

“Wait,” Lance says suddenly. “I made out with Allura?”

“Oh my God,” Keith mutters, exasperated.

“Thin ice, Lance,” Pidge warns, very slowly, pinching her thumb and forefinger together. “I am this close to losing my mind and ripping your dick clean off. How could you let this shit-show happen? I might have expected this from Keith—”

“Hey,” Keith says, vaguely affronted. 

“—but you, Lance?  My own big? What the Hell was going through your head? I understand we’re AKPsi, but do you have to be such a fucking stereotype?”

James snorts and then finally takes pity on them. “Alright, I dunno know what happened, but they’ve clearly suffered enough,” he says, trying to placate her. “Just _look_ at them, Pidge.”

“What are you trynna say?” Lance grumbles, half-hearted in his irritation at best.

“I’m saying I can smell your animal breath from here,” James says with a roll of his eyes. “Leave ‘em be,” he says, turning to Pidge. He ruffles her hair affectionately. “You hungry? Come get brunch with me and Leifsdottir. My treat.”

Lance makes a puzzled-sounding noise. “You _still_ call your girlfriend by her last name?” he asks in thinly-veiled shock and disapproval.

Even Keith raises a brow at this. “Fuck’s wrong with you?” he adds.

“Literally you two have no right to question me with the state you’re in,” James deadpans, earning a solemn nod of agreement from Pidge. 

Soothing Pidge’s ruffled feathers and subsequently escaping her wrath is no easy feat. She does it out of love and her fierce protectiveness, and Keith would be lying if he were to say he didn’t appreciate it, but it’s still a major pain in the ass to deal with, especially when all he wants to do is go to the bathroom to drop his post-drinking deuce in peace and then knock out in his own bed. Pidge is Keith’s little lady, his one and only, and usually she’ll soften when he calls her such, but she’s insanely pissed this time so he doesn’t even try.

So when she brightens, considering James’ offer with pursed lips, Keith tries to telepathically communicate his thanks. James waves his hand and mouths: _You owe me_. As much as Keith loathes to admit it, James has grown up to be a decent little. Still has a cocky attitude and could stand to be knocked down a peg or two, but nobody is perfect.

“Fine,” she says, relenting, “but I want an extra plate of bacon.”

Keith and Lance simultaneously breathe out a sigh in respite.

James laughs. “Yes, ma’am. Go get decent.”

He pats her once on the butt and she bats his hand away, turning on her heel to go up the stairs. When she reaches the base of the steps, Keith’s phone rings from somewhere in the near-distance. Lance moans, tells Keith to turn that shit off.

He spots it on the floor, next to the pile of his spoiled clothes, and lazily reaches for it, bones creaking in protest. He grabs the device and holds it far above his face, hanging up on the Scam Likely call before imprinting his thumb ID to check his feed. Pidge wasn’t lying. He has five missed calls and a series of frantic unanswered Facebook messages from her. There’s also a bright red notification by the far-left green icon on his screen, and he taps on it to see a new text thread from a name he only vaguely recognizes.

**_Acxa_ **

hey you

“Hey, Pidge,” Keith calls out, and she cranes her head to lock their gazes, her eyes narrowing.

“What do you want now?”

“Who did I throw up on last night?” he asks in a last-ditch attempt to unscramble the night from where his memory shorted out.

“Does it matter?” she asks, impatient. “Doubt you’ll see him ever again.”

 

* * *

 

**October.**

There’s nothing particularly great about October except for the notoriously wild joint birthday-Halloween party the brothers of AKPsi throw for Keith every year that always ends up with someone in the hospital, but alas, that is not for another few days. The brunt of schoolwork is raining down on him, hard, and forces him to skip out on sleep in favor of going on Adderall binges to mindlessly pump out papers and study for his midterms.

There are few times he regrets choosing to study astronautical engineering, but it’s come to the point where if he dares to see the phrase _Navier-Stokes_ again before presented with an asinine differential equation that has no place existing outside of theoretical mathematics, he’s going to end it all. When he’s not selling his soul to the elitist academia-driven greed of the world, he’s either at the gym or at his new FWB’s suite, fucking her silly.

The stress of his workload has him fucking into her roughly from behind tonight. Acxa is tight and wet around him, tattooed back arched into an obscene curve as she fists at the sheets. She whispers dirty little praises of encouragement, telling him how good he feels, how thick he is. He leans down, bites at her shoulder as he rolls his hips and grinds deep, and she throws her head back, mouth falling open into a choked off moan.

He reaches around, presses the pads of his fingers onto the slick of her clit, and she all but screams as she trembles with the force of her orgasm, calling his name like a mantra. He flips her onto her back, straddles her waist as he pulls off the condom and jerks himself nice and slow. It’s not long before he comes with a groan, painting her chest with strokes of white.

It’s easy, their situation. Acxa is a great lay and nothing short of lovely. Most importantly, though, she doesn’t misunderstand what they are and never asks for anything more. She hates forced pillow-talk just as much as he does and lets him mull around till he feels like leaving, which is typically after he regains enough feeling in his legs to move again.

He has a lot of work to do in prep for tomorrow, though, so he wills himself to get up, crawling over her and off the bed. He reaches for his clothes, hooking his shirt over his head and mussing up his hair in the process. She walks him to the door in her naked-glory, lithe and graceful in the way she moves, and presses a kiss to his cheek as he leaves.

Ezor and Zethrid (her coupled suitemates, he’s learned) are in the common area when he comes out of her room—disheveled and with an obvious post-sex glow. He stops, startled at their presence, and bids them a polite: _Goodnight, ladies._ They give him knowing looks, send obnoxious whistles and catcalls his way as he hurries to the door. He flips them the bird over his shoulder without even an inkling of guilt, but that’s mostly because he can hear their lighthearted laughter trailing after him out into the hallway.  

The cold air bites at his cheeks as he makes his way to the library. He ducks inside, welcoming the enveloping warmth, and heads towards the café inconspicuously tucked beside the entrance before he trudges on home. Caffeine and Adderall is not the best personal mix for his body as it makes his heartrate soar through the fucking roof, but it’s gotten to the point in the year (yes, he’s aware it’s only halfway through the first semester) where he doesn’t really care if he dies. The faces of distressed students bent over thick textbooks greet him as he turns the corner, and he resonates with all of them on a deep and spiritual level.

This late at night, there’s no one on line. Keith walks up to the register and waits patiently for the barista to come take his order as he listens to the racket of dishes clanging and water running from the backroom. He absently drums his fingers on the countertop for lack of anything better to do, tapping out the rhythm to a random song Lance has been belting out in the shower recently. It’s some god-awful K-Pop song, because of course it is. Lance has such shit taste in music that it’s appalling. But it’s catchy, Keith will give him that. _Naman mollasseotdeon something, bunmyeonghi neukkyeojyeo must be some—_

“Hey, sorry,” a smooth voice says. “What can I get for you?”

Keith snaps out of his daze. He opens his mouth, looks up, and then promptly freezes.

“Oh, _crap_.”

And then it happens, a deep-seated reminiscence triggered, making its presence known with an old-time film-reel rolling through its final stages of footage, mocking him through his cerebral cortex. Mortification paints itself onto his face as a rapid flush that travels all the way down to his chest, settling deep into the essence of his very being, sitting in the pits of his belly like stone. If the ground were to crack open and swallow him whole, that’d be okay, too.

Anything else, _literally_ anything else would be better than being face-to-face with the kid Keith barfed all over back in the summer. His eyes slide down to the guy’s nametag, pinned onto a tight shirt that does nothing to hide his amazing physique, where it reads ‘Shiro’ in white, blocky letters. The name isn’t familiar, but the storm in his eyes are, and when he smiles wide and sweet, Keith can tell it’s out of recognition.

“Sorry,” he says, sounding genuinely apologetic. “We’re all sold out at the moment.”

The joke is lame and the delivery piss-poor, but for some reason unbeknownst to him, Keith barks out a small laugh. Looking at Thunderst— _Shiro_ now, Keith is amazed that he even managed to forget someone like him, what with him looking virtually inhuman in his physical perfection, like an angel descended down from the heavens. Also, his arm looks like it came straight out of a mecha anime, but that’s secondary and besides the point.

Keith is at a thorough loss for words, not knowing how to go about rectifying this, this—predicament? Sure, it was months ago, and Shiro looks more charmed than anything else, but he still feels a visceral shame that gnaws at his insides.

“I’m so fucking sorry,” Keith blurts, words tumbling out of his mouth before he can process his thoughts, and then like an absolute train-wreck, he continues rambling. “I was so messed up that night—oh my God, I don’t even know what to—do you want to punch me? Do you want to kick my ass? A clean shot at my nuts?” he asks, and then quickly backpedals. “Wait, no, I actually—not my nuts, but anything else, I’m fine with, really. I deserve it. Shit.”

Shiro outright cackles, his whole face scrunching up, eyes crinkling into half-moons. He has to brace himself against the counter, and it’s so endearing that Keith momentarily forgets about everything else. He has deep-set dimples in both cheeks.

“That’s very kind of you,” he says, beaming beatifically as he straightens. He chuckles to himself, shaking his head. “But it’s fine, Keith. Really.”

“It’s not,” Keith insists, ignoring the strange fluttering in his stomach. Shiro remembered his name. It sounds good rolling off his tongue. “Do you want me to pay you back? For the clothes, I mean.”

Shiro makes an unnecessarily dramatic show of thinking this over, humming low in contemplation. “Well, it _was_ my favorite hoodie,” he says, rubbing at the barely-there scruff starting to appear on his chin. God, he is so attractive. “Okay. Give me two-hundred dollars.”

Keith balks. “ _Excuse_ me—”

Shiro laughs again, seemingly oblivious to Keith’s mental distress. The sound is musical and throaty, though, and Keith finds he likes it more than he probably should.

“I’m kidding, it was just a hand-me-down,” Shiro assures, waving his polymer hand. “Seriously, don’t worry about it. It was such a long time ago.”

“Are you sure?” Keith asks with a frown. A side of guilt wracks his bones now, with how good-natured Shiro is being about all of this. “I really don’t mind—”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Shiro interjects, firm but still somehow gentle. “You’re very sweet to offer, though. Thank you.”

There’s absolutely no need to thank him. It’s just common courtesy, Keith thinks, but dutifully doesn’t press the matter anymore to avoid embarrassing himself even further. There’s something delicately selfless and light about the way Shiro carries himself, and Keith notices it more and more every time he speaks.

He regards Keith with a soft gaze, fond almost, and the weight of the oddly comfortable silence that befalls them has Keith wondering if there’s still a chance for this to happen, for them to hit it off properly. He’d be a fool to not shoot his shot, but he also doesn’t know if Shiro is just being polite or if he’s actually flirting. Jesus Christ, being sober in these types of situations _suck_.

“Listen,” he says, steeling his nerves. He’d rather regret the things he’s done than the things he hasn’t done. Or something. He thinks that’s how the saying goes. “There’s a party at the AKPsi house on Halloween. I’m sure DSP is doing something, too, but you should come.”

When Shiro doesn’t respond right away, Keith falters.

“Uh, only if you want to, obviously,” he tacks on awkwardly. Fuck, mission failed. Abort, abort. He clears his throat. “Just thought it’d be fun.”

Shiro smiles, then; an enchanting, dazzling sort of smile that could probably cleanse the world of all evil with its radiance, and leans forward on his elbows. He worries his lower lip between his teeth. Keith wonders whether Shiro simply has an oral fixation or if that’s his move, but whatever it is, it’s working, because Keith can’t tear his gaze away.

“I’m working till close on Halloween,” he says by way of explanation, “but I could always come by after.”

“Yeah?” Keith says, relieved. He had been preparing to get rejected, so this comes as a pleasant surprise. He grins, suddenly excited and a touch eager. “I’ll give you a free-pass to throw up on me as payback. Just this once.” He holds up a finger to emphasize this point.

“I’ll try to keep that in mind,” Shiro says wryly, “but I don’t know if that would constitute as a fun time for either of us.”

“Fair enough,” Keith says. He shuffles his feet, drawing patterns on the floor with the tip of his shoe. The clock ticks in the background and the wind howls outside, signaling the later hours of the night. He should make his way home, but he lingers in the shop just a moment longer. “So, I’ll see you then?”

“You will,” Shiro confirms with a little nod and rosy cheeks. “It’s a date.”

Keith’s lips curl into a delighted smile.

“It’s a date,” he echoes.

The door chimes above his head as he leaves. It’s only later on when he cracks open his textbook to start studying in the comfort of his own room does he realize he forgot to actually buy something.

 

* * *

 

The morning of Halloween starts off with a group of his brothers busting into his room at the ass-crack of dawn, singing an especially off-tune, raunchy version of ‘ _Happy Belated Birthday to You._ ’ They tug the covers off of Keith’s half-naked, sleep-warm body and lift him up above their heads, carrying him out into the hall and down the stairs despite his protests.

Pidge, Lance, and James are already waiting for him in the kitchen when he arrives, a huge chocolate cake with twenty-two neatly assorted flickering candles in their hands. They let him blow out the candles before slamming it directly onto his face and the entire house busts out into cheers and laughter.

James and Lance press matching, sloppy kisses onto his cheeks as Pidge takes numerous pictures to post to Instagram, cooing over how nauseatingly cute they are. In all fairness, it’s an extremely wholesome way to start out the day.

Which obviously means that it’s only downhill from here on out.

The AKPsi house is predictably crowded come nighttime, an all-out warzone by anyone’s standards, with no room to breathe let alone move. The thing about Halloween is that it’s the only holiday Keith knows of where it’s universally accepted (and maybe even slightly encouraged) to be a hot mess. He doesn’t know when the once-pure tradition of trick-or-treating transitioned into binge-drinking and sleeping with scantily-clad girls dressed as cats, but he doesn’t question it.

Tonight is partly Keith’s celebration, so he’s the only one allowed to forgo a costume—anyone else who isn’t repping the holiday spirit, however, is turned away at the door. He’s opted to keep it simple in all-black tonight, an acting polar opposite to Lance who is fully decked out in ornate pirate garbs, dark eyeshadow strategically smeared over his face to act as dirt and grime.

When Keith asks how he managed to do that because he knows for a fact Lance does not have an artistic bone in his body, a familiar-looking girl pops out from behind him in a poofy princess gown complete with a tiara and takes credit.

“I knew he couldn’t do it by himself,” he says flatly, ignoring Lance’s offended spluttering. He reaches out to shake her hand by way of introduction. “I’m Keith.”

“We’ve met,” she says with her lovely lilting accent, though he can barely hear it over the boom of the music. She smiles, taking his hand in hers. “At the DSP party when school started, remember? My name’s Allura.”

“Oh,” he says, and then once more, but as a drawn-out exclamation this time as an abundance of newfound memories from the infamous night come flooding back in full-force, puzzle pieces finally slotting together after all this time. “Oh! Shit, hey. Hey. How are you?”

“I’m good!” she laughs. “You look much better than the last time I saw you.”

The tips of Keith’s ears redden as Lance snorts. “So you saw that, huh.”

“I think we all did,” she says humorously, a twinkle to her eyes. “I heard Shiro was coming out tonight, too. I didn’t know you two were friends.” Then, she pauses, the corners of her mouth tipping skywards. “Well, I guess anyone would become close after that whole debacle.”

“It’s not like that,” he clarifies. If his recollection of events serves him right, then that would make Allura Shiro’s little, and he’s not about to tell her upfront that he wants to fuck the daylights out of her big. There’s some tact to be had here. “I just passed along the invite when I caught him working.”

Before she can reply, a boisterous chorus of boos and whoops sound throughout, the sound reverberating off the walls, and they all turn around to see a large crowd formed around the beer pong table in the living room. A despondent pair of boys start chugging the remaining cups on the table, and the winners, who Keith can barely make out from here, but easily identifies as James and his girlfriend, Ina, sign the whiteboard on the wall to confirm their seventh win in a row.

Christ. It’s not even midnight yet, but Keith has had the misfortune of playing these two at a SigEp party once and knows all too well that Ina’s marksmanship is to be feared. James gestures to the mob of animated onlookers and asks with an astounding amount of confidence who’d like to be next, spreading his arms out wide like the lovable douchebag he is. Allura lights up with glee, tugging on Lance’s sleeve like a child during Christmas morning. 

“Let’s go play!” she says, and then tilts her chin haughtily. “I’m a pro at BP. You’ll have to play me one day, Keith.”

She’s so wonderfully excited that Keith doesn’t dare to crush her hopes and dreams. “You got it, Princess,” is what he says instead, and the giggle he gets in response is well worth it.  

She runs off to secure their spots, and Lance watches after her with the gaze of someone truly and utterly in love. Keith has never seen Lance pine before, but he’d known in the recesses of his mind that it would happen one day, when a girl so amazing finally swept him off his feet. It’s a disconcerting feeling, seeing this playboy in the throes of something so undoubtedly pure, but it makes sense, because Keith hasn’t seen any nameless girls leaving Lance’s room in the morning lately. Which is like, a huge deal.

“I’m gonna marry her one day,” Lance says dreamily.

Keith snorts. “Go get her,” he says, and pats his back.

He’s a little too sober, he thinks, so he goes into the kitchen next where he spots Pidge in her cute witch get-up. She’s leaning against the island, which is lined with enough alcohol to send the entire campus population and their mothers into a coma, and is tapping away at her phone. The blue tint of the screen glints off the surface of her glasses. He walks up to her and hooks his chin over her shoulder, hugging her from behind. She starts, stiff until she realizes who it is, and then relaxes into the embrace, her back hitting Keith’s chest.

“Whatcha doin’?” he asks.

“Gonna head out,” she says. “Asking my friend if I can come over. It’s getting too crowded.”

“I feel that,” he says. At this rate, there’ll be over three-hundred people by the time the clock strikes twelve, and their house is only suitable for less than half that amount, lest they want to be considered a fire hazard. Though, to be fair, no one can expect less from AKPsi’s annual Halloween bash. “Which friend?”

“Um.” She seems a little reluctant to answer, which immediately heeds warning bells in Keith’s head. “You don’t know him.”

“A _boy_?” he asks incredulously, tightening his hold. “Where does he live? I’ll murder him with my bare hands.”

“Oh, fuck off,” she says, body shaking with her laughter. “He’s a nice guy.”

“What’s his name?” Keith demands. “How do you know him?”

Pidge twirls around in his arms. “His name is Hunk and he’s my lab-partner,” she explains longsufferingly. “Please do not kill him. I don’t want to have to visit you in jail.”

“Are you going to be alone with him?” he presses. “Do you want my knife?”

“Oh my God,” she mumbles underneath her breath. “If this is how you act now, I can’t even begin to imagine you at my wedding.”

He scoffs. “You think I’m going to let you get married?”

She punches him in the shoulder, though it doesn’t hurt in the slightest as it’s lined with her affection. He asks how she’s going to get there, and she tells him she’ll just take the bus, but he shuts that option down so quick and so vehemently that she blinks at him in bewilderment. He scathingly informs her of all the possible dangers this late at night, and she rolls her eyes as he calls her an Uber instead.

Keith walks her to the entrance, shielding her with his body from the cesspool of drunken douchebags with compromised self-restraint. The car pulls up on the road as soon as they get onto the patio, cool air hitting their faces. He opens the passenger door for her and she teasingly thanks him for being such a gentleman, sliding into the backseat.

“M’lady,” he says, tipping an imaginary fedora at her.

“You’re such a doofus,” she says, but presses a kiss to his cheek anyway. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” he says. “Call me if you need anything.”

“Alright, alright,” she says, pushing at his chest. “Go and enjoy your party.”

He waits until the car rounds the corner before he turns on his heel and makes his way back to the house. When he’s back onto the pavement, he spots an easily recognizable figure being held up outside by one of the AKPsi brothers dressed as a police officer. An ironic choice, he thinks dryly.

They’re not arguing, but there’s clearly some misunderstanding going on, and when Keith gets close enough, he realizes what the issue is. Dammit. He had forgotten to tell Shiro to dress up for the party. He’s currently in casual clothing, donning a form-fitting Henley and well-worn jeans that hug his ass _just_ right, though, so maybe it was actually a blessing in disguise.

“Sorry, bro. I can’t let you in without a costume.” 

Keith slings an arm around Shiro’s shoulders, tugging him closer into the grooves of his side. “He’s with me,” he says, tilting his chin in acknowledgement to the brother playing bouncer, who nods in understanding and quickly moves out of the way. With the door unblocked, Keith turns to Shiro, meeting his surprised expression with a grin. He smells faintly of hazelnut creamer and expensive cologne. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Fancy that,” he drawls, mouth curving into a darling smile. “That was some good timing.”

Keith leads him inside the house and into the kitchen, and that’s when the night takes an unexpected turn.

 

* * *

 

In Shiro’s defense, he did preface the night by informing Keith with brutal honesty that he’s more partial to smoking than drinking because weed relaxes him, quells his anxiety even, whereas liquor is a total free-for-all in regards to how he’ll react. Keith didn’t realize the implications of this piece of information until they’re three matching shots of Everclear in, where he quickly learns that Shiro is completely different from the image he had concocted in his mind.

Shiro gives off this air of elegance, of steadfast composure, but he’s…quite the opposite (and a total lightweight, surprisingly). He’s actually loudmouthed and a complete dork who giggles at literally everything (his own jokes, which are not funny at all, included), and Keith can’t say he’s not into it, because it’s kind of adorable. Which is really not the word he would have ever expected to use when describing someone who looks like the literal personification of sex on legs, but.

“So,” Shiro starts, cheeks glowing a violent red, “what are you majoring in?” He sways on his feet, and Keith reaches out to wrap an arm around his waist, keeping him steady.

“You okay?” he asks, amused. “You can’t hold your liquor for shit, huh?”

“Oh, that is _rich_ coming from you.”

Drunk Shiro has a bit of a mouth on him, it seems. Damn. Cute and sassy. That’s Keith’s type to-a-T. 

“Touché,” Keith says, stepping back, and maybe he’s imagining it, but Shiro sidles closer, as if he misses the comfort of physical contact. “I’m in aerospace.”

“Oh, shit,” Shiro says, eyebrows crawling towards his hairline. “STEM, really? How are you—are you even alive? Am I talking to a ghost?”

“I survive on energy drinks and Addy,” he replies with a noncommittal shrug. “Pretty sure my heart is going to stop by the time I’m thirty.”

“Damn,” Shiro says, eyes wide. “That’s hardcore.”

“What about you?” Keith asks, taking a sip of the whiskey he just poured himself from the plastic cup nursed in his hand. The alcohol burns on the way down, but there’s a pleasant warmth pooling in his belly. He’s with good company, after all. “What do you study? Can I guess?”

Shiro grins. “Go for it. Doubt you’ll get it, though.”

“Uh...poli sci?”

“Nope.”

“Linguistics?”

“No, sir.”

“ _Art history_?”

“God, _no_ ,” Shiro says, snickering. “Dance.”

“Wait, really?” Shiro was right, Keith never would have guessed that. He supposes it makes sense, though, now that he thinks about it. The very few times he’s seen Shiro before tonight, it’s been at a standstill, idly dawdling or sitting down. Just minutes prior, however, while on their way to the kitchen, Shiro exemplified a keen awareness of his own body, expertly dodging people stumbling towards him by shifting his weight on the balls of his feet like it was second nature. There’s a certain lightness, an agile cadence to Shiro’s steps, unusual for someone his size. It’s all but gone now, since he’s on his way to wasted, but even then, he’s not as clumsy as he could be.

“Surprised?”

“I—yeah, actually,” Keith admits. “Why dance?”

“Oh, it’s—” He ducks his head, a little shy. It’s a good look on him. “It’s silly.”

Keith waves his hand dismissively. Lance tried majoring in gender studies his freshman year because he thought it would get him more pussy before ultimately switching to biomed when he realized it was a lost cause. He sincerely doubts anything could top that level of sheer stupidity. “Try me.”

“Well, I just.” He pauses and purses his lips. “After I lost my arm, I picked up dancing as a form of physical therapy,” he explains, deliberate in his phrasing. His lips curl over every word with extreme caution, seemingly as if not to reveal more than strictly necessary. Keith wonders what the story is behind that, but doesn’t push it for now. He can only assume it’s not exactly a feel-good tale.

“And you liked it?” Keith asks.

“Loved it,” Shiro replies with a small, private smile that makes Keith’s heart flutter. “It made me feel more in tune with myself—more whole. It’s kind of embarrassing but I felt—I don’t know, beautiful. Turns out I had a knack for it, too, so…here I am.”

He rubs the back of his neck, shirt riding up with the motion. Keith catches a glimpse of the skin underneath, tanned and softly toned, which is somehow even hotter than the rock-hard abs he had been half-expecting. A true dancer’s body, huh. Nice.

“That’s not silly at all,” Keith assures, dragging his gaze away with much difficulty. “Hell of a lot more inspirational than my reason.”  

“And what’s that?”

“I really like planes.”

Shiro busts out into laughter. “That’s admirable in its own right.”

“Glad you think so,” Keith says with a chuckle. “So, are you mainly into contemporary dance or…?”

“Yes, actually,” Shiro replies, eyes twinkling. “I’m trying to branch out in other areas, though. I’m not as well-rounded as I’d like to be, but I got to choreograph some pieces for the upcoming SDC Winter Showcase, so that’s cool.” He’s attempting to be casual about the whole ordeal, but Keith can hear the ring of pride in his voice.

“Oh, wow, that’s awesome,” Keith enthuses, smiling when Shiro preens under the praise. “When is it?”

“First week of December,” he says, and then his whole face brightens. “You should come, if you’ve got the time.”

“How much are tickets?”

“For you?” Shiro winks. “On me. Consider it a late birthday gift.”

“Wow, sugar daddy much?” Keith teases.

Shiro snorts. “More like Splenda daddy.”

Keith laughs, and then relays that last bit of conversation. “Wait, how’d you know it was my birthday?”

“You told me,” Shiro says, quirking a brow. “Back when we first met, I mean.”

“You remembered?” Keith asks in shock. 

“Yeah, I—uh.” He stops, uncertain now. “Is that weird?” he asks, the tips of his ears reddening.

“No, no, of course not,” Keith says hurriedly. “I’m just touched, is all.” And he truly is. Keith can’t even recall what he had for lunch yesterday, so the fact that Shiro managed to keep track of something he had only offhandedly said in a conversation where they both weren’t even close to sober is actually really sweet. Shiro is really sweet. 

“Oh.” Shiro smiles, slightly self-conscious in nature. “Well.”

A bit of an awkward, unsure lull falls between them as Shiro shuffles marginally off to the side, away from Keith. It would have been an almost imperceptible difference in distance if Keith hadn’t become so rapidly acclimated to the feel of Shiro’s presence. He eases his body closer, eliminating the gap, and soothingly bumps their shoulders together. He shoots Shiro a reassuring smile that he hopes expresses his genuine gratitude, and it thankfully works because Shiro visibly relaxes in response.

“My birthday was a few days ago, so this is sort of my party, too,” he clarifies.

“Is that right?” Shiro asks, and then gestures to Keith’s unassuming outfit. “Is that why you’re not in costume?”

“Yeah,” Keith says. “I can get away with it, but typically you’re not allowed in if you’re not wearing one. That’s why the bouncer gave you a hard time. Sorry ‘bout that.”

“So should I feel honored, then?” Shiro quips, lightheartedness regained in his tone. Keith likes that a lot better. “That I got express permission from the birthday-boy himself?”

Keith grins. “I mean, I wouldn’t do that for just anybody.”

Shiro playfully shoves at his shoulder, all bark and no bite. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”

“Only the pretty ones.”

“You think I’m pretty?” Shiro asks, mockingly batting his lashes.

“I think you’re gorgeous,” Keith replies honestly.

And that’s the thing, isn’t it? Shiro is strikingly attractive, a true stunner, but Keith hasn’t made a move yet. It’s a strange feeling, but not an unwelcome one, in which Keith would much rather just _talk_ to Shiro instead of fucking him. Obviously, if the opportunity presented itself, he’d still take it because he’d be a damned fool not to, but joking around and getting to know Shiro as a person is nice. Really nice. Maybe…maybe even preferred.

Whoa.

There’s a sentence he never thought he’d say.

Shiro giggles, snapping him out of his daze. The sound is so pure it would put a choir of angels to shame. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

Before Keith can respond, someone bumps into him so hard he nearly topples over but he catches himself just in time by gripping tight onto the handle of the fridge with three fingers, pointer and thumb loosely grasping onto his cup as Jack Daniels sloshes all over his hand. Worry flashes over Shiro’s face, a deep line appearing on his forehead.

“Shit, you okay?”

“’m fine,” he says tersely and angrily scans his surroundings to look for the offender. He comes up empty though because the whole house is a full-on rager now, and he can barely make out whose limbs belong to who with how jam-packed it is. He wants to continue hanging out with Shiro but at this rate, they’re going to get fucking mauled. There’s a pregnant pause as he weighs his options.

“You sure you’re okay?” Shiro probes, leaning into his frame of view.

“Peachy,” he says, and then comes to a screeching halt, as if a lightbulb dings right over his head. Peach. Fruit. Food. His stomach gives a small well-timed growl, then, and he glances at the refrigerator, an idea popping into mind. He turns back to Shiro, who regards him curiously with big, gray eyes. “Hey, what do you think of late-night breakfast?”

 

* * *

 

Business is slow tonight. Quiet, even—a welcome change of pace.

He doesn’t expect Cindy the waitress to remember him, but when he walks in, she considers him for a long moment, as if trying to rack her brain for where she might have seen him before. When recognition dawns on her, she gives a curt nod out of respect and seats the two of them at a freshly-cleaned booth by the large glass window pane of the diner, gently placing their menus down onto the table.

How odd, Keith thinks. Is she trying to make amends? Start anew, maybe? Are they building up some sort of rapport now? He reckons it probably has something to do with the generous tip he left her last time. He thanks her as she walks away to get them water to start off.

“For the record, I don’t condone buzzed driving,” Shiro says, settling back and stretching his arms out over the back of the bench. He eases into the seat as he gets more comfortable, totally oblivious to being on the receiving end of awestruck stares from numerous skimpily-clad girls passing by outside.

“You still got in the car with me, though,” Keith points out as he reaches for a menu. He starts flipping through the pages, trying to decide on what to order. Everything looks so good when hit with a case of the drunchies. “What does that say about you?”

“That I’m susceptible to peer-pressure and the prospect of food?”

“Free food,” Keith corrects, glancing up from his menu. “I’m paying.”

“What?” Shiro asks, eyebrows furrowed. He leans forward, crossing his arms over his chest and placing his elbows down onto the surface of the table. “No, that’s fine. It’s your birthday, I should pay.”

“ _Was_ my birthday,” Keith says, mentally ooh-ing and ahh-ing as he uncovers the list of confectionaries. They’ve updated their specials since the last time he was here; there’s a brand-new addition of s’mores-themed pancakes. Fuck yes. The amount of calories shown is staggering, but also… _s’mores_.  “Consider it repayment for the clothes.”

“But I already said it was okay—”

“Hush,” Keith interjects with a lazy smile. “You said it yourself, right?”

“Said what?”

“That this is a date,” Keith reminds him. “I’m just being chivalrous.” 

Shiro blinks, and then beams, shimmering and bright. “Well,” he says, cheeks dimpling, “I can’t argue with that.”

Cindy comes back with their waters and sets them down, but not before gasping in awe when she gets a good look at Shiro’s face. In retrospect, Keith should have realized that Shiro would be the type of person old women coo over. She gushes over how handsome he is and he politely laughs, denying such a claim.

“Now, there’s no need to be so modest,” she lightly chides, reaching out to squeeze his bicep. “Just _look_ at you!”

Keith never pegged her as the chatty type, what with her rough exterior and their rocky beginning, but she talks. A lot. She not-so-subtly mentions she has a granddaughter around Shiro’s age, and this is where Keith finally decides to cut in. He places his order, and Shiro quickly follows suit, sparing him a thankful glance out of his peripheral as Cindy trots off. 

“Can’t take you anywhere, huh?”  Keith asks, good-natured.

Shiro scratches the bridge of his nose, a bit sheepish. “Guess not.”

Their food doesn’t take long to come out, and Keith’s mouth waters at the sight. He thinks he’s starting to understand why people take pictures of their food now. It’s still a stupid habit reserved exclusively for the annoying white sorority girls he so viscerally hates and he’d never do it, but he gets it.

“How are you still going?” Shiro eventually asks a slight while later, after they’ve devoured most of their meals in relative silence, too distracted with voraciously shoveling back bite after bite in their drunken haze to even speak. He’s got less than a quarter of his mac ‘n cheese left, but he pushes his plate away and leans back, practically melting into the vinyl-upholstery. He lets out a low whistle before patting his slightly-rounded belly. “I feel like I’m carrying twins.”

“Well, you know,” Keith says around a mouthful of chocolatey goodness, “I gotta carbo-load.”

“That’s not even remotely how carbo-loading works,” Shiro says, then pauses. “Did we just unintentionally quote ‘ _Dream Daddy_ ’?”

Keith chortles. “Craig is bae.”

“An overrated choice,” Shiro says with a sage shake of his head. “Robert is clearly superior.”

“What?” Keith asks. “He fucks you and then never hits you up again. Where’s your self-respect?”

“Excuse me?” Shiro asks, placing a hand over his heart, as if he’s been gravely wounded. “You’re not supposed to sleep with him; that ruins the entire playthrough! He’s actually really sweet, just misunderstood.”

“No, he’s a dick,” Keith argues, pointing his fork at Shiro. “Craig is better in every way. Easier on the eyes, even.”

“You’re not into the dark, brooding type?”

“I _am_ the dark, brooding type,” Keith deadpans.

That startles a hearty laugh out of Shiro. “Oh, I can totally see that.”

Keith scrapes the last of the syrup off his plate with his fork and then asks for the check. Shiro gets the rest of his food bagged up to go, and Keith once again leaves Cindy a hefty tip before they make their way out the restaurant.

When the bell above the entrance chimes above their heads, Cindy calls out to them, tells them not to be strangers, though Keith gets the feeling she’s mostly referring to Shiro. Nonetheless, Shiro’s responding tinkling giggle is enough to make her smile wide, cheeks a delighted pink. Keith can tell that she was the type of woman who was considered beautiful in her prime.

“Nice car, by the way,” Shiro says, patting the side of Keith’s old pick-up truck. “Very cowboy-esque.”

He admires her coating with careful, marveling hands. She’s gotten a little dusty these days, dulling in her usually vibrant red sheen. Keith needs to get her to a wash soon. He unlocks the doors and climbs on into the driver’s seat. He secures his seatbelt as Shiro takes shotgun and does the same. Safety first. He slides his key into the ignition, reveling in the sound of her starting roar. It never gets old.

“What can I say?” Keith remarks with a lopsided grin, shifting the car into reverse. He places his hand on the back of Shiro’s headrest as he backs out of the parking lot. “I’m just a simple country boy.”

For some godforsaken fucking reason, Shiro takes that as his cue to embrace his inner meme-lord and belt out, _‘Country boy, I love you!’_ at the top of his lungs. Keith jumps practically half a foot in the air, swerving wildly over the lane division and nearly killing them both. The resulting honks and curse-filled threats are deafening, but Shiro’s sheer, unbridled merriment somehow manages to overpower it all.

“You fucking dick,” Keith breathes when he regains traction, reaching out to punch Shiro in the arm. Shiro laughs so hard he ends up with tears in his eyes, gasping for air as his body folds in half against the resistance of the seatbelt.

“I’m sorry,” Shiro says, wiping at his eyes, “I had to.”

Keith shakes his head, a smile of thinly-veiled mirth playing on his lips. If this were anyone else, he would have kicked them right out of his damn car, but Shiro is so cute when he laughs, so he lets it slide this time. Just this once. He cocks his head in thought. Is this what it means to be whipped? Is it even possible to be whipped already?

“Where’s the DSP house again?” he asks, peeking over at Shiro when he hits a red light. He rolls down the windows. “Or do you live in the dorms?”

“Dorms, yeah,” Shiro replies, breeze flitting through his hair. How pretty. “You’re taking me home?" 

“Of course I am,” Keith says, handing his phone to Shiro. “Put in your address. And your number too, while you’re at it.”

“Considerate _and_ forward,” Shiro says with a frivolous lilt to his voice. “A man after my own heart.”

Keith snorts.

There’s a surprising amount of traffic which tacks on a considerable amount of extra time to the drive, but Keith isn’t complaining. Conversation is easy—they’re lethargic and loose with their full stomachs, at that sweet spot of barely tipsy.

Shiro is such an animated speaker, telling so much with just his hands and sparkly eyes that Keith is nothing short of entranced. He learns that Shiro chose to stay in the dorms because it was either being in a single room with all the privacy he could ask for, or being woken up in the middle of night on a daily basis by his brothers. The walls are thin, he recounts with a shudder, and he’s been privy to many things he’d like to forget.

“Allura tries to whip them into shape,” Shiro explains, “but it never works.”

“Sounds like Pidge,” Keith says, turning on his blinkers. He inches toward the halfway point of the intersection to make a turn. “She’s my pledge bro’s little. They’d get along, probably.”

“Do you have a little?” he questions.

“I do,” Keith replies with a frown. “He’s the worst person. I mean. I love him, obviously, but like—if you gave me the choice between saving him or saving a random dog, I’d pick the dog.”

“For some reason, I feel like you’d pick the dog in any scenario.”

“Not true,” Keith says, glancing at Shiro. “I’d save you over a random dog. Not my dog, but a random one? Yeah.”

“Oh, I’m so flattered,” Shiro pretends to swoon. “Could you even lift me, though? You’re like, one-forty.”

That deals a huge blow to Keith’s ego. “The fuck do you take me for?” he asks, bristling with offense. “First of all, you twink—”

Shiro sputters. “I am _not_ a twink—”

“I’m one-sixty-five,” Keith goes on, “and second of all, I just hit two-thirty as my 1RM, so. Try me.”

“Okay, firstly,” Shiro says, sucking his teeth, “I’m a jock if anything. And secondly, you One Direction reject—”

“How _dare_ you—”

They go back and forth like that, trading jibes and banter like it’s so easy, like they’ve known each other for so much longer than just a mere few days (or technically, a few months). They drown out the radio and Siri’s voice with stories of their grossest, wildest, and fondest memories from all throughout university, all of which, unsurprisingly, in some way or another, have to do with their respective frats.

Shiro tells Keith how he had to streak across campus naked for initiation and then ate shit by tripping on a measly pebble. Which wouldn’t have been so bad in on itself, had it not been for the fact that a group of sorority girls just so happened to be “conveniently” passing by and saw his flaccid dick, shrunken from the cold. Keith brushes that off as child’s play and then discloses of his own hazing in which he had to choose between getting a direct shot from a paintball gun to the dick, or be forced to listen to _Numa Numa_ for eight hours on loop in a darkened closet.

“I wasn’t able to jack off for a fucking _month_ ,” Keith groans. 

Their overlapping fits of cackles and laughter fill the air, and before they know it, the streetlights are cutting off as Keith pulls up to the resident quad, darkness filtering in through his windows. He parks on a side road and then takes his phone from Shiro’s hand, fingers brushing against the cooling metal of his palm.

“You know,” Shiro begins with a smile, “I had a lot of fun tonight.”

The cliché of the line is hard to miss. “Yeah, we should do it again sometime,” Keith counters, mouth curling into an impish smirk. “I’ll call.”

Shiro only snickers and readies himself to leave, coiling the handle of his takeout bag around his wrist and taking off his seatbelt. He places his hand on the door but Keith slinks forward just in time, jutting out his lower lip into an exaggerated pout.

“What’s wrong?”

“No goodnight kiss?” Keith asks jokingly.

Shiro raises a dubious brow. Keith momentarily thinks maybe he’s taken the bit too far, but then the corners of Shiro’s lips quirk upwards and it gives him away. “You think I’m that easy?”

“I would _never_ ,” Keith insists with a dramatic gasp for added effect. In all honesty though, he’s not even remotely serious and doesn’t expect anything to come of his half-baked jest. So when Shiro leans over the console and into his personal space, his jaw falls slack in surprise.

“I know,” Shiro agrees in a sultry murmur, and then presses a kiss to the corner of Keith’s open mouth, lingering and sweet. He pulls away, eyes twinkling. “Next time, dinner is on me.”

Keith stares at him unblinkingly as he hops out the car, dumbfounded. Shiro walks up the pathway to his dormitory, silhouette slowly becoming smaller and smaller. Keith makes sure he gets inside safely, waiting until he scans his ID and disappears from sight before he shifts his gear into drive. He makes his way home then, a bit frazzled but not at all displeased.

It’s only when he pulls into his driveway does he realize he’s been wearing a goofy grin the entire time.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm @ shirotales in tumblr if u wanna chat! 
> 
> i've been so busy w uni and it's really cracking down on me--i wrote this months ago, but i finally decided to post it and just do chapters instead of trying to crank out one big thing. so the next few chapters will be coming out soon, they're already outlined and ready to go! keep an eye out~


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